From the wet edge of her saree (Panata), A stream of maternal love was dripping. Yet, to put food into the mouth of her ailing child, The nectar-stream of her breasts had completely run dry. The portion of the thatched roof That had blown away during the Kala Baisakhi (summer storm) Could not be repaired or put back together; The promised relief and assistance from the administration Has not reached her to this day. The man who had left with a middleman (Dalal) In search of better earnings never returned. And the thirteen-year-old daughter, Who was called away to the village chief's (Sarpanch) house On the pretext of being given a plastic tarpaulin sheet— Has not come back home since. From within the mud walls that were collapsing in the rain, The exposed wooden rafters looked utterly helpless. Carrying a heart that had already shattered in the prime of her youth, She was wrapping her wet clothes tightly to cover her body. She was reminded of the childhood nursery rhyme: "The clouds rain down, pitter-patter, The water-chestnuts have sprouted, In which distant kingdom does my king reside? Go, play the drums of his arrival..." Nothing felt comforting to her here anymore. Streams of tears were rolling down her eyes, While outside, a torrent of rain kept pouring down. Amidst the roar of thunder and flashes of lightning, Vanishng into the deep darkness of the night Was the helpless, desperate cry of a virgin girl Who had just stepped out to…